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heavy-winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,

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Makes faint with too much sweet these I know not how thy joy we ever should

Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was

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Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

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Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the

doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

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That panted forth a flood of rapture so

divine:

Chorus Hymenæal,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt,

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A thing wherein we feel there is some hid- Music, when soft voices die,

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Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace
within nor calm around, 20
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory
crowned-

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.

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Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep

woe

Are brackish with the salt of human tears!
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb
and flow

Others I see whom these surround-25
Smiling they live, and call life pleas- Claspest the limits of mortality,

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THE WORLD'S WANDERERS

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And sick of prey, yet howling on for

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When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was
gone,

Tell me, thou Star, whose wings of light And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

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